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kichiyosh1 · 18 days ago

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Tears are running down my face, mind you. For the majority of my time reading I've been keeping quiet but now I simply must say this is just a masterpiece. Though I can't see for shit cuz, yeah, blurry, It's been awhile since I've been so moved by a work of fiction.

Gonna drop the poise and just say BROOO IM CRYING THIS IS GENUINLY THE MOST LIFE CHANGING THING IVE EVER READ SINCE THE LAST LUSTRUM OF MY EXISTENCE. I'M BEING DRAMATIC, PROBABLY. MY EMOTIONS ARE ALL OVER THE PLACE PLEASE. IM GONNA HAVE A GOOD TIME REREADING THIS FOR THE NEXT MONTHS.

As a fellow hufflepuff, I'm just as giddy reading. The immersive factor in your story is insane, I swear! or I just have an over active imagination, but the emotions i feel are deffo real. A part of me wants to just, blabber away my thoughts but, ehem, gotta respect my blogs overall stance.

Just know dear author, that you've changed my life with your works. I can't believe I haven't found you sooner. To show how serious I am, I'm now gonna start praising you in my own native tongue— well, mixed with it.

Chada kaayo ang story huhuhu ang over all plot ug ang writing ug ang characters ug— AH! basta, TANAN. Nalingaw jud kog basa, dugay nko wa ka kuwa aning feeling na murag ma immersed btaw jud sa story. Ga hilak ko bro unya wala pa nko nahuman ug basa, part sa akoa di gusto humanon kay huhuhu is so gooood. I love your writing jud ayyy, Ganahan ko how naay level of comprehension na masabtan nko ug ang overall essence sa story is just mwa CHEF KISS. Di ko maayu ug words pero I am very very moved. Murag naay kaning throbbing sa akong heart bitaw, the good kind, and dira ko kabalo na, yes, this is a work like no other. Ang tension, ang angst, ang dynamic ni gibby ug ominis, murag ma inlove mn ta uy. Basta bay, lipay kaayu ko, basin sobraan rkog ka feeler but exactly! I FELT for this story, a feeling na I've long forgotten since the last time I've read such a good work of fiction. kudos sa author mwa mwa, If there was a physical copy of this I'd have killed to get one.

So yahhh daz all, just got a lil emotional there and needed to like, voice my thoughts. I'd translate what I'd said but I think it'd lose its sincerity yk. But ahhh, loved this, love u author, I hope for all good things to happen to you, may both sides of your pillow be cold. I kinda feel silly, like a child getting candy and going on a sugar rush, but just know that's how much your story affected me. The Hufflepuff in me is oozing agshdjdjdjdhf🙇‍♀️

🍭☀️A Cruelty Vivid and Sweet

Slow burn angsty Ominis x F!Reader [T-Rated, 11.5k words]

"You're... beautiful," he whispered. A croaking huff emerged from your lips. "Flatterer. You don't know what I look like. I could be ugly. As ugly as a troll, for all you know." "Impossible." He reached up, drew the back of his fingers across your cheek. "Your soul is too beautiful for the outside not to match."

In which, with Sebastian imprisoned and you battling your own demons, Ominis tries to win back your affection.

Tropes: angst/ romance/ drama, slow burn, black cat x golden retriever, opposites attract, forbidden love, pure-blood culture, canon rewrite, book!canon compliant, comas, coarse language, flirting, Christmas parties, mistletoe kisses, typical Victorian attitudes, Parseltongue is Sexy, Gaunt family issues.

MASTERLIST | FIRST | PREV | NEXT AO3 | Wattpad

8. Flirtations

Most of the train ride to Hogwarts, he was mercilessly alone.

The demons of last year still haunted him. Sebastian was in Azkaban, Anne was gone, you had mental battles to overcome. He was recovering from the wounds of his losses, all of them, having stricken his mortal flesh to bloodied pulp. Nothing could happen that was worse than last year, and that was the only thing that staved off his anxieties about sixth year. About going back, pretending everything was fine.

About his newfound isolation in this terrible, cruel world.

After the Hogwarts Express left the station in York, the compartment door slid open as he was reading, trying to distract himself. That aura of power wafted inside at once.

"Hello, Missy."

"Good afternoon, Ominis." She sounded well. "May I?"

"By all means."

He did like solitude, introverted as he was, but he also appreciated that Missy had come to keep him company when his thoughts were threatening to engulf him. Missy settled her belongings – then immediately unbuckled her bag, taking out a book of her own.

"We didn't get much chance to talk during the trial. I suppose Sebastian told you I was working on an appeal? I've been scouring through old case records lately."

"Missy," he said, "it's not even the first day back."

"I'm aware. Now, I've made some decent progress—"

"And I'm certain Sebastian told you that you shouldn't dedicate all your free time to appealing his case."

The book clapped shut. "I argued about that with him."

"I'll bet you did."

"You agree that it was unfair."

"It was," he said, "but we also have school to focus on, our lives. Don't spend the entire year trying to free him. Otherwise you'll end up like him last year, searching for that cure."

Missy hesitated. Then, "Yes, all right."

Her and her Slytherin ambition. He had to admire it, at least. Sebastian had a good person fighting in his corner.

They exchanged usual small talk. Her summer, it turned out, had been mostly spent between her new lodgings in the Yorkshire Dales – Professor Fig had bequeathed his cottage to her in his will – and Hogsmeade, from where resided many of her friends who'd helped her prepare material for Sebastian's trial. It was thanks to them, she said, that Sebastian wasn't imprisoned for life.

"I visited Hogwarts when I was there, too," she said. "I met with Gibby a few times."

Inevitably your name came up – and always, with Missy, with that wily undertone.

"I take it she's on board?"

"With Natty and Garreth," she paused, "and Leander."

It filled him with a distinct sense of embarrassment that you could bear to be around Leander Prewett more than your old best friend.

"Ominis—"

"I'm glad she's settling back into normal ways," he said, cutting her off.

Thankfully, she left it at that.

This year promised to be a turning point in his life. His old friendship group was fractured beyond repair, and without Sebastian, Anne, and you, he had no one in which to find safety and comfort. He would be alone, lonely. There was Missy, of course, but she had plenty of her own friends – the caverns were proof of that – and that left him adrift, too late to start making new connections.

At least, that's what he thought, ten days into term.

"Hey, Gaunt!"

Ominis perked up. The Great Hall had emptied after lunch – he was thumbing through his Arithmancy textbook before the class when the bench groaned next to him.

"Garreth," he said, apprehensive. "What do you want?"

"Nothing at all," said Garreth; he sounded genuinely cheerful. "I noticed you were alone and thought I'd say hello. What are you reading?"

"Theories of Numerology."

"Sounds dreadful."

"It's actually riveting," Ominis said, deadpan, "and I'd quite like to get back to it, if you have nothing else to say."

If Garreth was offended at his bluntness, he didn't sound it. "If you must know, I did actually want to ask about the trial. I was surprised at what you said about Sebastian – the first parts, when you answered their questions, was that written for you?"

Ominis furrowed his brow. "Yes."

"Parents, I presume?"

"Yes."

"Ooo. Nasty."

"You really waited this long to ask me about Sebastian's trial?"

"Hey, I'm not afraid to admit I'm slow, and my aunt's got me helping this Ravenclaw girl with Potions, so what little brainpower I have is already being drained." Unfortunately he only sank further into the table, making no attempt to leave. "Don't suppose you've done the History of Magic essay?"

"... You mean the one due tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"I'm not letting you copy it."

"Damn— I mean, right, that's fine."

And though it pained him to say it, he mumbled, "Gibby is excellent at the subject. She will help you. Quite likely will let you copy from her, too, though you didn't hear that from me."

"Oh, er, yeah," said Garreth. "Thanks."

Ominis was silent.

"Well," and the boy clapped him on the shoulder. "See you around? Er, not literally, of course. You know what I mean."

He skedaddled. That, Ominis thought, was suspicious. Tellingly his first thought was that Leander had sent him to spy, but no, that was ridiculous. Leander may have vied for your affections, but neither would he stoop that low, nor was he intelligent enough to think of such an idea.

Yet it was a puzzle Ominis couldn't finagle, and Garreth continued to pester him like that for the next few weeks. He was no Sebastian, but they carried themselves similarly – bright and bold and chomping off more than they could chew. Together they were a dynamic duo of troublemakers, especially in Potions, but whilst Sebastian was like a storm, Garreth was more like a restless sunbeam on a balmy spring day.

"I think it's nice," said Missy to him, one frosty weekend morning in October, when most people were out of the common room. "That you have a new friend."

Ominis leant back on the high-backed chair. "He's not my friend. He wants something, I just know it. Homework, or potions ingredients."

"He's my friend," she remarked. "I can vouch for him. He's a genuinely good person."

"I'm sure he's delightful."

"It can't hurt to have more friends, Ominis, have an open mind." She cleared her throat. "Which... brings me to something."

"More trial research?"

"No." She moved her chair closer and, to his surprise, cast the Imperturbable charm, creating a bubble that blocked out all sound. "I have something I'd like to tell you. About ancient magic."

He put aside his textbooks. "And that is?"

"I can see it around you. Around the others, too, that came to the caverns."

His awareness shifted then, as if trying to sense it floating around him, but when he felt nothing out of the ordinary, his lips buttoned.

"Is it... bad?"

"No. Mere wisps, really, but it's been there since the repository. I know I should've told you earlier, but with everything going on, with Fig and Gibby and Sebastian ..." She cleared her throat. "I've been hearing things, seeing things a lot since then, too."

"How so? What are you seeing?"

"Memories, from centuries ago. During the Tudor period."

His brow furrowed. "Was that not..."

"When Isidora Morganach was alive? Yes. I... I believe these are the memories and emotions of the students she stole from."

Which now lived in her body.

"That does not sound healthy."

"It's been harmless."

"So far." He tapped his wand on his thigh. "You absorbed a great deal of that magic. How do you know it will not... overwhelm you?"

"I don't. Without Fig we know very little about this magic I possess. I'm learning about it as you are." That wasn't an answer, but she seemed aware of that. "I'm only telling you because— I suppose I'm looking for solidarity."

"I can hardly provide solidarity for something I don't understand," he said, then added, "I won't tell another soul about it."

"Thank you. I mean that, sincerely."

That did beg the question, though. Why had her strange ancient magic attached itself to him? To the others? Was it simply because they'd held her when she absorbed the repository? Was it his own ancient magic, waking from inside him?

"If the visions worsen," he said, "let me know."

"I shall. In return, I want to help you with something."

Intrigue surfed through him, and he reclined, easing again now that a lightness had returned to her voice. "What could the Hero of Hogwarts help me with?"

"Well, since you seem reluctant to do anything yourself," she said, with a lilt of teasing, "I thought I would help you in winning back Gibby's affection."

His stomach knotted. This conversation had taken a turn he did not like.

"There's nothing to win back."

"If you're not careful, she's going to fall into Leander Prewett's arms and never look back."

The thought filled him with rage, yet he said, "It is what it is," because whomever you chose to spend your time with was your decision.

"There you go again," said Missy, exasperated, "sounding as if you've already given up."

But she couldn't possibly understand how crushing it was to know that you couldn't bear to be near him for very long, nor alone. That every conversation was stilted and awkward, like four years of friendship no longer mattered. That you didn't touch him or hold him or tease him anymore, because the pain was too great. A pain he hadn't been quick enough to stop.

"What do you possibly suggest I do?" he dared to ask. "Because right now being in my mere presence distresses her."

"I'm suggesting," said Missy, "that you court her."

He almost – almost – laughed.

"Court her? That is lunacy."

"Why? You can't tell her she's pretty, no, but you can compliment her, engage in flirtations with her. Gibby is a hopeless romantic. She will melt."

"But she— she doesn't like me that way."

"I know you're blind, Ominis, but you're not, you know... blind."

He knew that. The Amortentia, for one, proved him wrong. But that was a long time ago.

Missy was gentle now. "Fight for her. Charm her. Earn her affections back."

He sat up. "You're forgetting something key. I come from a family of anti-Muggle supremacists, for whom the word disapprove does not do justice."

"Remember what I said? Forget them. Do it for you. You'll regret it if you don't at least try. And if you need some help along the way, I'll be there." When his expression crumpled, she merely added, "You deserve some happiness too. And, well, the boy I like is in prison, so all I can do right now is help you."

He let out a single, sad chuckle. What a pair they made.

Fine, then. That day he resolved he would try, would fight for you. But he would also guard his heart, and yours. He was not prepared to offer his love only to have it stolen away again – by fate, by family, by whatever else came careening his way. He was not at the point where he felt like he could give all of himself.

He had been shattered too many times, and had not yet recovered from the last blow.

Flirtations. A word that filled him with dread. Over the course of the first three months, you didn't speak more than you had to during class. That was okay, you needed space, and he needed time to think about a strategy. How did he plan to win you back? How could he court you, when he was your ruin? He thought back over the years, picking apart moments, no matter how fleeting, that he could use to help.

Like that time he discovered your ultimate dream.

"Happy birthday!"

You squealed when he, Sebastian and Anne, plus Adelaide, Arthur and Evangeline, jumped out from behind the pillars by the pond in the Transfiguration Courtyard.

"I-It's not my fourteenth birthday until the holidays!" you said. Your arm was still in a sling from the bad fall you'd taken from a tree.

"We know that," said Evangeline. "But since we're never at school during your birthday, we thought we'd celebrate early! Have a picnic!"

"I'll take credit," said Sebastian, preening. "It was my idea."

"Then I sorted the food," said Anne. "And the picnic, and telling everyone..."

"Yeah," said Adelaide, laughing. "Really, Sebastian didn't do anything."

"Snitches," muttered Sebastian, but there was no real scorn there.

They all gave you presents, mostly sweets, but also a necklace, from Adelaide, and a new blouse, from Anne. Sebastian divvied out the food – sandwiches, flasks of tea, cakes, tarts, fruit, bread and cheese and a cheeky bottle of wine Arthur managed to procure from the kitchens. Ominis nursed a glass as you chatted.

"This is so fun! On my actual birthday my parents just let me off chores – although once, when I was nine, my papa took me to the panto!"

"Panto?" asked Sebastian.

"Pantomime, you know, a theatre production for children? It's usually at Christmas, but that year they did one in summer. You... don't have that?"

"Obviously not," he said, laughing.

"You mean, ohhhhh no we don't!" At the silence, you cleared your throat. "Sorry, sorry, Muggle joke."

"Mark another for the Gibberish Vocabulary," he mused. "What else are we missing from the Muggle world?"

"That's a big question," Arthur laughed. "Do you really trust Gibby to answer it?"

"Excuse me, I was raised Muggle, unlike you," you said indignantly, trying to peel a banana with one hand. "You can ask me, but you'll have to be more specific."

Adelaide peeled it for you before giving it back. "If you weren't a witch, what school were you going to go to?"

"School? Oh, no, I wasn't going to go to school! I was lucky I knew how to read."

A collective sweep of surprise went through them all, Ominis included.

"I was going to help my papa run the confectionary," you said brightly. "And my mama was going to teach me embroidery and needlework, cooking and cleaning..."

"So, what?" Sebastian asked, incredulous. "So you could... become a housewife?"

"Yep!"

"That sounds horrible," said Anne.

"Oh, well," you seemed embarrassed, "it's not so bad, really. Women can't own property—"

"What?" roared the girls.

"— so I was going to learn those skills that would make me useful around the home. Then when I married, the confectionary business could continue under my husband's name, but secretly I would run it, of course."

For some reason, that made his lungs squeeze.

"Gibby," said Adelaide, "that's awful."

"Yeah!" Evangeline protested. "Why can't you own the confectionary?"

"It's just— not how it's done."

"I'm glad you're a witch," she said stormily. "Now you don't have to follow such stupid rules."

You chomped on your banana, silent, and Ominis detected a hint of shame.

"Is it also true," Sebastian said, "that boys and girls can't be seen alone together?"

"Adult men and women, yes," you said, mouth full. "You have to have a chaperone, and if someone catches you alone together, it can cause a big scandal. The woman is seen as—" you whispered the word, "promiscuous."

How absurd. Ominis frowned. "Just being alone together means the woman is wanton?"

"And what about the man?" Evangeline asked hotly.

"Not the same for men."

"That's ridiculous! Why does Muggle society hate women?"

"I don't know. Every time I send a letter home, I have to remind my mama that magical folk have different rules. She lost her marbles when she found out I was socialising with three boys." You sighed. "The wizarding world is very, erm, open-minded. There was a lot of stuff I had to learn, but there was also a lot of stuff I had to unlearn, too."

There was something to be said about being raised in the magical world. At least, as a man, Ominis had rights no matter which side, and you... well, he was glad you were given an opportunity to grow into yourself, better than the Muggle world could offer you.

Sebastian clasped your shoulder then. "We're glad you're with us, Gibby." Then he gasped, comical. "Oh no, your virtue! I have thoroughly besmirched it with one touch on your shoulder!"

"Scandal!" Anne cried. "To the gallows!"

And even though you laughed, he noticed it didn't quite reach its normal, song-like inflection. He unravelled the conversation in his head as the topic moved on, and realised that perhaps, in your ideal future, you did want to become a housewife, you did want to run the confectionary with your husband after your father was gone. No magic or witchery had ever changed that.

Was that still what you wanted? Is it something you still want? To run your family business, to have a husband and a family to call your own?

Is that something he can ever hope to give you now, after everything?

And would you ever want that role to be given to him?

"The mistletoe discriminates for no one!"

A day before the start of his sixth year Christmas holidays, he received an invitation to a secret Christmas gathering of Missy's that evening, after the feast.

He'd wondered where such a gathering could take place – Professor Black was quite against them – but the instructions were unclear, only to meet on the seventh floor above the Charm classrooms. Missy had been reluctant to give too much detail when he queried her that day, but supposedly, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, there was a vast room she'd been using as her own private space. It only opened for her, and what she needed.

"Well," she muttered, "that's what I've told the others I've invited. The room will open to anyone if only they ask for it. I'm only telling you because I know you won't tell everyone."

After all these years, Hogwarts still found ways to surprise him.

She'd invited only the people who had joined her down in the caverns last year, plus you. A private party; for once it was nice to relax, be off-guard. Did Ominis like everyone there? Certainly not. Amit Thakkar was a know-it-all, Everett Clopton an annoying prat, Garreth Weasley was still suspicious, and Leander Prewett – well, he needed no explanation as to his intense dislike for that prick.

But did he trust them all? Did he trust them to keep secrets that weren't theirs to share? He was surprised to find he did.

Most importantly, he could trust that, around them, he could be seen with you.

It was an eclectic room to suit Missy's eclectic taste. The others talked of furniture that didn't match and strange design choices. It smelt like polished wood, flora, the acridness of a boiling cauldron and, oddly enough, animal food, though the latter came from the gateways to outside domes – what Missy called vivariums – where she kept beasts she'd rescued from poachers. She spent some of her evenings trying to nurse the creatures to full health before rehabilitating them in the wild.

As Ominis accustomed himself to the place, Natsai and Nerida added decorations, Poppy and Adelaide brought in food. Everett was in charge of entertainment and brought games to play. And Garreth had been into Zonkos for an enchanted mistletoe, which jingled above the heads of two random people, only ceasing in exchange for one thing.

"I would literally rather die than kiss you."

"This is just a test run, Imelda, and you're already being overdramatic."

"It's your bloody mistletoe and it's already caught you!" She tried to swat the thing, but it danced out of reach. "Ever thought what it would do for people who don't want to kiss for personal reasons? Like, an aversion to physical touch?"

"... Are you averse to physical touch?"

"Not unless it's a punch in the gob," she said, "which seems pretty tempting right now."

"Come on, where's your Christmas spirit?" said Garreth, though his voice rattled nervously. "It doesn't have to be a proper snog, and I know you'd rather I be a girl. Just a swift kiss to the head will do."

Ominis chuckled into his flute of wine. He and Missy were sitting at a nearby table, soaking in the atmosphere as the party had begun in earnest. A gramophone was lilting a jaunty tune between the humdrum of cheer. Reluctantly Imelda kissed the top of Garreth's head, making retching noises as she did, and the mistletoe stopped its jangling, though she promised to hex him if it caught her again.

"Any change to your visions?" Ominis asked.

"None," said Missy. "If anything they've been rather refreshing distractions from building Sebastian's appeal. The Wizengamot refuse to reply to my letters."

The door edged open, followed by a flurry of timid steps. Yours, late. A great cheer arose when you entered; usually you were wowed by magic you had never seen before, and a secret room was perfect for you – but you made no noise of wonder, only a shy "Hello," in acknowledgment. Missy slipped off the chair to greet you warmly – but you didn't hug, he noticed. Not anymore.

Most of these people, after all, you'd seen in your nightmares.

"Merry Christmas, Ominis," you said. Everything hung between you, a great echoing chasm. "I came to say goodbye."

His chest gave a painful lurch. "You're going home for the holiday?"

"Yes."

Disappointment eroded his ease.

"The train doesn't leave until tomorrow morning," Missy said. "I insist you stay for a little while."

"I have to pack."

"You're a witch," he reminded. "It'll take you seconds."

You were quiet, and he could tell you hadn't forgotten this rather important fact. You were simply looking for a polite excuse to escape. He turned back to the table, forced himself to drink.

"What Ominis means," Missy said, and he could feel her glaring, "is that there's plenty of time before curfew, should you wish to stay."

"I-I mean... would... you mind? I just... want to get used to being around all of my friends again."

"Of course I wouldn't mind. Stay for as long as you feel comfortable."

So Missy got you a drink – pumpkin juice – and let you linger by the door, enjoying the atmosphere but never fully involved, trying to peel back more and more of the curse, one moment at a time. It pained him to sit so far away from you. He was the wallflower, drawn to the sides, to the quiet corners. You, on the other hand, loved parties and socialising. Very often, you were the life of them, playing the games, eating food, talking non-stop, encouraging madness. Not this nervous creature, afraid of participation. Not someone who found the presence of so many people overwhelming.

You stayed on the sides, away from everyone, as Natsai set up a smaller version of Summoner's Court. Almost everyone played – even Ominis himself, roped into a game when Leander made an off-hand comment that he could, surely, 'beat the blind bloke' (Ominis won, naturally). They drank in-between – Everett had secured a keg of Firewhiskey – and it was clear most of the sixth-years couldn't handle their alcohol.

As Ominis was on his second glass of wine, Leander staggered towards you. The worst of it was, you didn't flinch or push him away.

"It's nice to see you back at parties, Gibs," he said, clearly finding some Dutch courage. "I'm glad you're getting better."

"Thanks, Leander," you said sweetly.

"Am I— too close to you right now? Do you want me to step back? Sorry, I really don't want to spook you."

To Ominis' surprise, and infuriation, you let out a giggle. "You're okay where you are. Just don't fall over. I don't think I'm strong enough to catch you."

"Wow. Were you always really short?"

"I think you're just really tall."

"Like a tree!"

Like a troll, Ominis thought.

Nerida slipped into the chair next to Ominis then, fiddling with her wand. "I think Everett jinxed my robe. I can't seem to stop swinging my arms every time a new song comes on."

"Sounds like something Everett would do," he murmured non-committedly.

He'd missed what you said next, but it made Leander thunder with laughter.

"Good to see no curse stops the legendary Gibberish Vocabulary."

You harrumphed. "It's not the Gibberish Vocabulary. It's true. Take any object and put -ed at the end. Congratulations, you've turned it into the Muggle word for drunk."

"Bottle?"

"You're completely bottled, Leander."

"Wand?"

"He's wanded up, all right."

"Robe, then?"

"I'm absolutely robed."

"I don't know, that last one was shaky, Gibs." He laughed again. "You sure you're not... pulling my leg?"

Then it came. The jingle of mistletoe.

Directly above your and Leander's heads.

Ominis almost sprayed wine everywhere. Your banter and teasing he could just about handle. But you and Leander kissing?

"The mistletoe has chosen its next—!" Garreth halted. "Oh. Ah."

"Bum," Leander said, and to his credit he did sound embarrassed. "Hey, Garreth, I think we should make an exception for Gibs. You know, curse and all..."

"I can speak for myself." You took a breath. "It's all right."

All right? It was absolutely not all right. You were still readjusting to these people being in your life. A kiss was— too much, too fast. Ominis' grip on his glass tightened, and he made to get up, complain on your behalf, you were just being nice after all—

"Oh, well," Leander cleared his throat, "can I kiss you then?"

There was some pause. The jingling continued.

"Yes," you said, "okay."

Then he heard the kiss on your cheek.

Crack. The flute's stem snapped, spilling wine everywhere, and Ominis hissed. The mistletoe ceased as Nerida squeaked.

"Oh, Ominis, careful! Reparo!"

He purged the liquid as the glass repaired itself. The shards had cut into his palms, and quickly he dabbed a napkin to staunch the bleeding. It came away sticky.

No pain, however, could subdue the rage incinerating him right now.

Leander was entirely all too pleased by the time Ominis tuned back in. "You have nice cheeks. Really soft."

"Thanks," you said prettily. "You— have nice lips."

Ominis gritted his teeth. Was a jinx too much? Perhaps a small hex then? Or one little Blasting curse? Leander could take it, surely. Throttled by temptation, he resisted all urges as you both continued to chat, perfectly content.

"I saw you break your glass. Are you all right?"

Missy, at his side. "I'm fine," Ominis said, drawing his ear away. "I'll cast Episkey when the bleeding stops."

She laughed softly. "I wasn't referring to your hand." She leant close and whispered, "That happening at the same time those two kiss? Definitely not suspicious."

He discarded the napkin onto the table before leaving. "I'm not having this conversation."

He didn't cast a Healing charm in the end – the pain was a welcome distraction from his aggravation. The kiss seemed to have broken the ice for you, and for the first time, you spoke to people willingly, not just Leander but your other friends as well. Ominis switched to pumpkin juice – clearly the wine was doing terrible things to his head – and continued to linger at the sides, mood souring. He listened intently when Leander was speaking, if only to glean something from him. Weaknesses, maybe. What on earth did Prewett have that you found likeable? The boy was a bully, abrasive and vain. Of course Ominis had no idea what he looked like, but there had to be something appealing there, as his soggy toilet seat of a personality couldn't possibly have won you over.

He massaged his temple, plying the low ache forming in his skull. Flirtations. Courtship. As the boys played Exploding Snap, he found another seat in the corner of the room, brooding miserly over the idea. He had no idea how to flirt, no idea as to the subtle machinations of showing affection without showing too much. Your voice was enthralling, your personality like sunshine, everything about you so pleasant that he was drawn to you helplessly.

He just he couldn't imagine saying that. To your face.

A body slipped into the chair next to him. He didn't recognise your timid gait – but your scent was still the same, and his heart notched in speed. Heartening to know that, after everything, you still clung to strawberry laces, sweet as memories.

"Have..." You trailed off, then tried again. "Have you heard from Anne?"

You initiated. That was good.

"Not since a few days before your curse was broken." Which you already knew about. He hadn't heard from her since, but, well, he was no longer worried for Anne anymore.

"I hope she's okay. What... happened to your hand?"

"Oh." He cleared his throat gruffly. "I broke a glass."

"Too much wine?"

"Hardly. I was just—" He fished for the word. "Inept."

"Let me see."

He swallowed thickly and offered his hand. You traced the fine clotted wounds, your touch feather-light, drawing a luxurious heat to his cheeks.

"Shall I heal it?"

"If you want."

He felt your wand tip press to his palm. "Episkey." The pain vanished, and he was upsettingly aware that you were probably wondering why he didn't just do that himself. "Be more careful, okay?"

"Usually I'm the one saying that to you."

"We ought to swap places from time to time. Keeps life interesting." A note of amusement threaded through you. "I've never seen you drunk."

"And you never shall."

"Is that a challenge?"

"It's a promise."

A soft chuckle. "This is nice. Just— bantering and teasing. Do you ever miss first year? When it was just... me and you and Sebastian and Anne, and we didn't have to worry about goblins or curses or— evil family members?"

He traced the tip of his finger along the rim of the glass, and admitted with sad clarity, "I miss it every day."

You sounded sad too. "Now there's only two of us."

"Well," Ominis said softly, "better than only me."

Imelda's booming laugher cut off your meek reply – shortly followed by the jingling of mistletoe. Ominis inclined his attention to his left.

"The mistletoe discriminates for no one!" she jeered. "Yeah, taste of your own damn medicine, isn't it?"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Garreth groaned. "Look, Everett, you're a nice chap and all—"

"Frankly I'd rather kiss a troll," said Everett, miming sickness.

"Hey, I won't judge whatever you're into."

You giggled beneath your breath, which made Ominis smile. They did kiss, on Everett's forehead – only because Garreth couldn't see his precious Galleons wasted like that – but after that he stuffed the mistletoe in a jar on the mantelpiece.

"Well, erm," you cleared your throat. "It was nice to see you."

"You're going already?"

"I've... had enough excitement. I get— anxious easily, now."

That made him clench his glass. "I see."

"Well, you don't." He must've made a stony face, because you said, "That was a joke. Just to show... we're okay, both of us. I'll... I'll see you after Christmas, all right?"

You stood and made to go, and by instinct he stood as well.

"Stay."

"What?"

"Over— Christmas," he said, trying not to stumble. "Stay. Please. I— don't want to be alone this holiday."

There was some emotion in your voice he couldn't identify. "You won't be alone. Missy is staying too."

"Yes," he said, breathless, "but she isn't you."

Was that a flirtation? He had no idea. You inhaled a long breath, seeming to contemplate this – seriously reconsider. His heart leapt with hope.

"I can't, Ominis," you said, and it was a sharp prick to deflate him. "I'm sorry. It's— I'm not over it all yet. I can't— be alone with you."

"You saw your family in your nightmares, didn't you?" he questioned in a rush. "Why do you think it'll be easier—?"

"It won't," you said, insistent. "But I haven't spent a lot of time at home for the past year and I miss them—"

"You miss me. You said so."

"You're different, okay?" you snapped. "You're being really unfair right now."

Because, the thought pierced him, I miss you too.

But he didn't say it. He couldn't.

Something smashed – glass. Garreth swore.

"Garreth!" Imelda cried. "You stupid—"

"Merlin's left arsecheek, I know, I'm clumsy! Finite Incantatum!"

But the spell missed, probably because he was too drunk to stand straight. Ominis turned towards the commotion, not understanding what was happening—

Jingle, jingle. The mistletoe belled above his head.

And yours.

"Whoaaa, okay, we have to leave this one!" slurred Garreth. "Get in there, Gaunty boy!"

Under the mistletoe. With you.

A flush overwhelmed him as the mistletoe jingled again, expectant. He didn't know what to make of your absolute silence. You were amused, and more than a little flattered, when you were caught with Leander, but now you were with him.

"Garreth," he said steadily, trying to remember he and most of the others were so drunk they couldn't tell face from arse. "I will not force Gibby to do anything—"

"I can speak for myself, you know," you said, that same edge to your inflection.

He didn't move. Neither did you.

"S-So— but—"

"What?"

Damn it, he was flustering. "You don't want to kiss me."

"You're talking over me again." Your ire bloomed something in his chest. "Just— say it, if you want to say it. You don't want to kiss me."

That could not have been further than the truth, but damn if he was going to say it, show it in front of all these people. "I— if it will stop this infernal jingling..."

A coward's answer, for certain. Still, the whole room was cheering, whooping, encouraging them, which only made his traitorous heart worse. Finally he turned to you, schooling his face into something more composed.

"Listen, I'm sorry for what I said. I do know I'm... different to you, and you're still accustoming to being around me, but if you are even slightly uncomfortable—"

And as sudden as a flash of lightning, you had closed the gap between you, and your lips were on his cheek.

Soft, sweet, seducing.

He barely had time to register it before you were stepping away again, and the jaunty mistletoe ceased. This made everyone in the room cheer like some great hurdle had been overcome. The feeling of your lips lingered.

And it made his insides scream.

"There," you mumbled. "Now you can stop talking over me."

Deep longing crashed through his chest, clammed his tongue. Too dazed to reply, he simply stood there, motionless and stiff. Do something. Say something! But he couldn't. His internal wiring had fizzled out in the same moment the breath left his lungs.

"Right," you blurted, "I— I really have to go now. So, erm, have a nice Christmas. Everyone."

And you were scurrying away, back through the door. Gone.

It took a second for the rest of his body to catch up. For his heart to race at the speed of a train, for the blood to rush to his cheeks. He'd had to endure listening to Leander kiss you, but this made up for it a thousand times over.

And then, regret.

Why didn't I kiss you back?

Someone nudged him then. Garreth.

"Damn, she ran straight out. How bad do your cheeks taste, Gaunt?"

"If you don't stop that bloody mistletoe, Weasley," Ominis muttered, "I will turn your insides into outsides."

"Duly noted. Finite Incantatum!"

This one he didn't miss. The mistletoe dissolved.

The partying resumed like nothing had changed, of course. No one mourned the mistletoe, and the consequences of such a kiss. The way it consumed Ominis' thoughts, so much that he had to find a seat immediately, massage his temple, resist the urge to touch his cheek.

"You seemed to enjoy that."

Ominis scowled at Missy's tone. "Not another word."

But she chuckled beneath her breath. It was vaguely sinister. "Very strange how Garreth happened to trip into the glass, and the mistletoe happened to choose you and Gibby, isn't it?"

"... You are evil."

"I'm a Slytherin," she corrected. "Merry Christmas."

It was certainly a Christmas, and though a kiss from you was a priceless gift, a moment he would cherish, he'd more describe the two weeks holiday as strange. The day itself had been fine – fun, even, when Missy gifted him some cologne ("So you actually start smelling attractive." "A simple I thought this smelt nice would've sufficed."), and he gifted her a loud pocket watch (for no reason other than to stop her sneaking up on him), and they played Summoner's Court in the snow.

On Boxing Day, however, he was accosted in the Slytherin common room, an arm looping through with his. If it weren't for his brain processing the girl's scent – champagne and vintage fur – he might've flinched.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Ominis," crooned Dorothy Ellingboe, his cousin once-removed. "You're coming with me."

"To where?"

She didn't say, only dragging him out to the faculty tower. His thoughts ran rampant when they reached the door to the staff area. Had he been caught with you? Had Missy's secret been exposed? He could tell by the mighty bounce in her step that she knew something he didn't.

When they pushed into a sitting room, hearth blazing, Ominis' reluctance tripled.

"Ah, there you are."

He recognised this voice too, Dorothy's haughty mother. Much like Dorothy herself, she had a slight force to her words – full of a barely-concealed malice. Once a Gaunt, always a Gaunt, no matter how distant.

"I've brought him as requested," said Dorothy, and she set him down on the sofa.

"What is the meaning of this?" he enquired, not quite politely.

"We're merely making rounds, Ominis," said Mrs Ellingboe coolly. "There's something I'd like to hear for myself. Your parents tell me you have the ability. So, pray tell, how is your Parseltongue?"

Only until she'd finished did he realise she'd spoken entirely in the snake's language. His stomach twisted. Dorothy was silent at his side, but he could tell she was waiting, as her mother was, to test him.

"Fine," he replied, forcing out the guttural tongue. Always ready, as he'd feared. "Is that really the only purpose of this visit?"

"Parseltongue is a dying art," his cousin hissed. "It is important to speak it frequently, so as to make sure the language does not die."

"It is not a language you can learn," he said, remembering Sebastian's words in the Scriptorium. "It won't matter whether I speak it frequently or not."

"You have a sharp tongue, boy," she said, not without a small amount of amusement. "You ought to not to bite a hand that feeds you."

He had no idea what that meant. He kept as far away from the Ellingboes as possible.

"So?" Dorothy asked – in English. "Does it meet your standards, Mother?"

"Yes," she replied. "It is legitimate."

He stood. "If that's all, I shall take my leave."

"Very well."

He almost didn't want to return to the common room, knowing how easily he was buttonholed. What in Merlin's name did she and his family want to test his Parseltongue for? Was she sent by his own parents, prodding once more at the strength of Slytherin's blood? Some inane test about his legacy or whatever nonsense Marvolo liked to parrot?

She didn't bother him again for the rest of Christmas, a small relief. Missy didn't know what to make of it either, when he shared it. So the January term began anew, and on the fourth day in, he was surprised to find a note in his pocket.

Meet alone? Undercroft, 8pm.

This was no small feat. It had been eight months since you'd woken, and not once since had you requested alone time with him. He was more than a little relieved, and nervous, to meet you there. He washed and dressed and was in the Undercroft at exactly eight, knowing you would likely be late.

But a moment after he arrived, the gate lifted.

"Hello, Ominis," you greeted shyly, coming over.

He studied your voice, as he always did. You sounded... better.

"Hello, Gibby."

"You're... wearing something?"

"Clothes, funnily enough."

"No, I mean— is that cologne?"

Merlin. He'd probably put too much on. "I got it for Christmas. From Missy."

"Aw, that's kind of her."

"Not so when she tells you that you smell."

You laughed, right from your chest – an inkling of your old self.

"You don't smell. She was teasing... I think."

"One can never be sure with her."

"But— it is nice, really," you said sweetly. "It suits you."

You didn't sit close anymore, and he remembered that day after he argued with Sebastian, when you had comforted him, head on his shoulder. All he could smell back then was strawberry laces. Those days were gone, but he was grateful you were here at all, even if not in close proximity.

You shared what you'd been up to over Christmas. You were again forced to readjust to your parents and all three of your loud brothers, who didn't quite understand the parameters of your curse. Acting as if everything was okay, however, seemed to help you around them – because they had little knowledge of the magical world, and how cruel it could truly be.

"I also received a proposal. Well, an informal proposal, I suppose."

His lungs knotted. "From whom?"

"The baker's son, Timothy Spink. I've known him my whole life."

Ominis loathed him already. "Oh?" he said with forced nonchalance.

"Technically he just reminded me about a promise we made when we were children. Do you remember Muggle courtship rules? Neither of us want the fuss and bother of going to church and meeting eligible partners. So he asked seriously if we could marry each other when we're both older. I said I'd think about it."

"And will you? Think about it?"

"Maaaaaybe."

"Don't tease, Gibby."

"Why? Doesn't Mrs Spink sound fetching?"

"Dreadful, actually." He raised his chin. "You deserve much more than a marriage of convenience."

You quietened, and he couldn't tell what you thought about that.

"I suppose it does sound rather dreadful, doesn't it?"

That brought him an amount of relief he could not quantify. He told you about his Christmas, mostly relaxing with Missy, poring through law books to see any loopholes in Sebastian's sentence, practicing spells they'd need for their N.E.W.T. classes. He also told you about his unfortunate encounter with Dorothy.

"Parseltongue?" you questioned. "Why's she testing your Parseltongue?"

"I don't have the faintest idea."

"Hmm, well," you mused, "it is a very cool ability, to speak to snakes."

You must've been thinking back of the Scriptorium – the first time he'd used the ability in years, and the first time he'd used it in front of you.

"It's not something to boast about," he murmured.

"You said it was associated with Dark wizards."

"Yes, because only Slytherin's descendants have the ability."

"But the language itself, it's not bad, is it? Like, you don't want to kill a bunch of Muggles after you speak it?"

"You shouldn't joke about that."

"I'm not."

His lips pursed. "You cannot uproot its history so easily. It is bad."

"But that's like when my brother Connor tried to teach me Welsh swear words. The whole Welsh language isn't bad because of it, is it? Parseltongue is the same." You hummed. "Say something nice."

"What?"

"In Parseltongue. Say something nice. Like... the sun feels good on my skin."

His brow crumpled, but he obliged. "Very well. The sun feels good on my skin."

"Was that so evil?"

When he spoke the language in the Scriptorium, it was a deep betrayal of his personal values, an abomination, used to access Dark Magic and hurt you and coax Sebastian into eventually using the Unforgivable Curses. When he spoke it to Dorothy's mother, it was a means to an end, an escape for her scrutiny, a test of the legacy he bore. But such an innocent phrase... there was nothing sinister in it, only in the way it sounded. Only in the way he perceived it.

"I suppose not," he hedged.

"Say something else," you said, eager.

He rubbed his temple. Now he'd opened the floodgates. "Such as?"

"I'll guess!"

A game, then? He smirked, and was gratified to hear you laugh in return.

"Othinuisss haunthh hassshith hssssiet."

"Hint?"

"A common way for me to greet someone new."

"Hmm... 'Nice to meet you'?"

"No. I said My name is Ominis Gaunt. Othinuisss haunthh is my name in the tongue."

"Othinis haunts hashith hissiet!"

He snorted. "Slytherin just rolled in his grave."

"Good." Your enthusiasm was palpable. "Again!"

"A simpler one, then." He knew what to say. "Hithhy."

"'Gibby'?"

"Correct."

"Hithy hashith hissiet!"

"Not hithy. Hithhy."

"That's definitely what I said."

"There's more emphasis on the h sound. You said the equivalent of Jih-BIH, rather than Jih-BEE."

You giggled, falling back against the floor. "It's so amazing that you can just say it. You didn't have to learn it, or its rules. It's just... programmed into your brain."

He sobered. "Into my bloodline, you mean."

You sat up, voice gentle.

"A language is a tool, Ominis. It can't be inherently bad. It's only in how you use it."

There was truth to that, and to hear you say it made him feel... lighter.

"I know you don't like it very much, and this might not mean anything to you," and you shied, "but I think it's— it's really— well, it's kind of... attractive when you speak it."

He flushed from tip to toe. His hissing was attractive? He had to turn away from you then, fearing his expression was too hopeful, too desperate. Stop blushing, fool, but it was impossible, when you'd outright confessed it to him. When you brought back the memory of you under the mistletoe, the smell of you in the Amortentia. You, in everything.

How he wished he could kiss you now.

"I— ahem." He cleared his throat noisily. "That— I think—" Merlin.

"Ominis."

It was infuriating not to be able to read your expressions as easily as you read his. He faced you, and with startling awareness, realised you were crawling over to him.

"Sebastian and Anne are gone now," you mumbled, "but you're still here, and I know you always will be, so... thank you. Thank you for... being my friend."

You'd said that to him before, a long time ago now. He thought he'd changed, his past catching him unawares, his family thumbing away compassion and joy bit by bit, his future looming over him, promising sweet rot, but to think that after everything, you still believed in his goodness...

The memory of Christmas fluttered back to him.

"I missed you." It came out as an injured admission. "I have missed you every day for the last two years."

Your silence was foreboding.

"It's funny," you said quietly. "Sometimes I look at you and— see that horrible version of you, torturing me, enjoying it. Sometimes I see you and my breath catches in terror." His chest throbbed painfully. "But then... memories of everything before come back, and you say things like that, and... I remember that behind a wall of stone, you guard a heart of gold."

He felt it on his pinkie finger then – your own, brushing his. He almost flinched, the suddenness startling him. Then came that rush of adrenaline, as potent as lightning. Your finger intertwined with his daringly, and he responded, turning his palm over, letting you lace your hand with his.

And there you were, both of you, sitting in the Undercroft, holding hands.

"This is the most I can do for now," you whispered.

He smiled. Caught his breath.

"This is enough."

You continued to meet in secret like before. Your touches were brief like before, too. Shy and awkward. Sometimes Missy invited you and him, and Garreth, to her magical room. On your worst days you declined. On your lesser worse days you simply did revision to the sounds of the beasts roaming in the vivariums, barely saying a word. That was okay. You couldn't give yourself wholly yet, and he was prepared to wait.

He would wait an eternity, if it meant he could be yours again.

By the end of spring, he had gained much more courage, and so had you. You talked for hours, you teased one another, and you laughed, laughed so hard sometimes tears came out of your eyes, and his. Once you fell asleep against his shoulder, and he stayed with you the whole night, if only to allow you a semblance of peace as the workload ramped up and the year drew to yet another close.

Still he thought of that moment under the mistletoe. Still, he was tormented by his stupor and hesitation.

"Did you enjoy it?" he asked you in May. "Kissing Leander during Missy's party?"

"What's brought this on?"

"Just curious."

"Ominis Gaunt," you said, sly, "do I detect a hint of jealousy?"

"Absolutely not. That would require me to admit he has something I don't."

A dulcet laugh. "If you must know, yes, I did enjoy it. When you and I weren't talking, he was so kind to me, and it was confusing. It... it still is..."

Ah.

"But," you mumbled, "I also enjoyed kissing you. Even if you didn't."

It brought breath back to his chest. Don't dare hope. He wouldn't allow it. He grappled the last strings of his resolve and braced himself.

"I did want to kiss you. Very much."

You went silent. It seemed to last for hours.

"But you didn't."

"No."

"Why?"

His jaw tightened. His very own nature, was why. His very own, real fears.

Still, time had granted him wisdom and hindsight, and he was determined to show you that he was yours, and he would certainly not let bloody Prewett beat him at anything. He reached forwards, tangling your fingers with his.

"Will you allow me to make it up to you?" Gently he guided your fingers to his lips, hovered there in wait as a gasp slipped from you. "Say you will offer me this small forgiveness. Please."

A pause that felt as long as a sunrise.

"Okay."

So he placed a soft kiss to your knuckles. You made a noise that thrilled his blood, and he smiled and pressed another, just to hear it again. You were a distraction, a dazzling distraction, and despite everything going on in his life, despite the threat of his family, a persistent bad smell with the slow bubbling of his affections, he allowed himself to succumb to it. To be swept away by you.

Distracted he was, that mere days before his mock Potions exam he arrived at the laboratory completely forgotting he'd had homework.

"What's with the face, Gaunt?" Garreth asked.

All year, and still Garreth hadn't let up. Suspicion teemed through him.

"Nothing that concerns you," he said brusquely.

"Come on, don't be like that. What? Forget your homework, or something?"

Merlin, he was easy to read. For you he would accept it, but Garreth Weasley? Ugh.

He felt parchment brush the tips of his fingers.

"Here," said Garreth.

"What is this?"

"Oh, sorry – forgot you can't read it. I'll dictate."

"What is this?"

"My Potions homework."

Ominis scrunched his face. "Are— you letting me copy from you?"

"Yeah, and you better hurry, because Sharp will tear us new ones if he discovers—"

Instead, Ominis levelled his wand at Garreth's throat. Rather extreme, when he thinks about it now. Alas, his suspicions had come to a head, and Garreth had it coming eventually.

"Why?"

"Are you seriously threatening me for offering to help you?"

"Enough with this," he snapped. "You've been hanging around me being annoying all year, and I have no idea why."

"I do not annoy," said Garreth. "I pester."

"I don't care what synonym you use. Why are you trying to get into my good graces? It's insidious and I cannot figure out what your grand scheme is, so you'd better tell me the truth or so help me—"

"Merlin, Ominis, not everyone is out to get you." Garreth pushed the wand tip away from his neck. "Gibby put me up to it. There."

It was so shocking Ominis went predatorily still.

"What?"

"Gibby. She asked me on the first day back if I could keep an eye on you. Well. Not keep an eye on you, so much. Specifically she asked if I could keep you company in all the classes we share."

He was so colossally flabbergasted he didn't speak.

"Not out of malice, I swear," said Garreth. "It was just— she couldn't stand being around you much, after the curse, and she worried you'd be lonely."

He had been. Was.

"She thought, if anyone could be an amazing, charming proxy friend, it would be me, and I agreed, because one can never have too many friends." He imagined Garreth grinning. "For what it's worth, you're actually all right. Not the stick-in-the-mud that I thought. Though you definitely have angst-ridden, Slytherin issues."

"How kind."

"It is, I am." But when Ominis didn't return its lightness, Garreth only sighed. "Don't be mad at her, all right? She was looking out for you."

He had no idea what to feel. He wasn't some baby that needed looking after, but he knew, when it came to you, you never condescended. It was with the purest intentions that you sent Garreth after him, and that alone made his heart blunder.

"I'm surprised you agreed," he said, lowering his wand. "You have conflicted interest in this, no? Since your best friend is Prewett?"

"Hey, you two can have your pissing contest as much as you want, I'm staying out of it. I just did a favour for a friend."

And although he was loath to admit it... he appreciated the thought.

"Well... thank you."

"You're welcome."

"However, if you tell anyone about this arrangement, I will ensure my face will be the last you ever see."

"Hahah. Funny." But when Ominis only smiled, Garreth said, more desperately, "That was a joke, right?"

He had no intention of letting Garreth into his inner circle, his most trusted companions. Friendship took time to build, and he would rather die than frolic to class with a Gryffindor at his side. But he let up a little on his bluntness, even when Garreth annoyed him by way of being... himself.

He intended to discuss this development with you.

Along with other things.

You'd swooned about the view from this particular balcony once. Far away from Hogwarts and on the edge of Hogsmeade, it was not at all convenient to get to, but a sunny June day between exams, cold enough to need a jumper, warm enough to enjoy the sun on his face, seemed like a good time to take advantage of the distance. There was little chance you'd be interrupted. Little chance you'd be caught.

"I found out about Garreth."

Braced on your arms beside him on the stone bench, you went utterly still.

"Oh."

"Mmm, oh."

"Are you mad?"

"A little," he admitted. "You needn't have worried about the state of my social life, let alone meddled with it."

"I'm sorry. After Sebastian, I didn't want you to be alone."

He let out a single chuckle. "Loneliness and I are old acquaintances, Gibby. I would've survived. And I have Missy."

"But you're genuine friends with Garreth now, right? He's really nice."

"He's tolerable."

You playfully shoved him. "Ominis."

"Going behind my back to get me a friend is rather cunning of you, I must admit. A little Slytherin rubbed off on you, Hufflepuff?"

"Considering you called Garreth tolerable and not ingratiating, insipid, or troublesome, I'd say my Hufflepuff has rubbed off on you, Slytherin."

He smiled. "Suppose I wouldn't mind keeping a little of you for myself."

He laughed when you stammered. Flirtations. He had to admit he was getting quite good at it. He stood then, fuelled with courage, and took your hand to pull you up.

"Dance with me."

"Dance?" you said, incredulous. "Now?"

"Of course."

"There's no music."

"There doesn't need to be."

"But— I can't—"

"Everyone dances, Gibby."

He smiled, thinking on a memory long ago. Perhaps you were thinking about it too.

"All right," you said softly.

You took his left hand and shoulder, he took your right hand and waist. Your closeness was dizzying, but he forced himself to focus, to sway. He was unfortunately familiar with more complicated dances from all the parties his parents had dragged him too, but this was a simple box-step, one you picked up on easily.

"Ow. You trod on my foot."

"I'm sorry, I can't see where they are. Though they must be rather large for me to step on them."

Your blustering gasp made him chuckle. "How dare you! I have delicate, ladylike feet, thank you very much! Not like your massive clod-hoppers."

He smiled wickedly. "Well, you know what they say about people who have large feet... they have other large body parts, too."

"W-What?"

"Hearts, of course."

"Oh, Ominis!"

"Your mind clearly went elsewhere." He let out a husky laugh. "How terribly unladylike of you, Gibby."

"I have two older brothers," you snorted. "Of course my mind went elsewhere!"

He slowed the pace, drawing you closer, and that intoxicating scent of strawberry laces eclipsed all else.

"Indulge me," he mumbled. "What of mine were you thinking about?"

"Nothing at all," you said, feigning disinterest. "I was, in fact, just thinking about someone else's large body parts. Someone beginning with Lee and ending with ander."

Oh, you were evil.

"You'd better be talking about his heart."

"I would not refer to anything else, of course," you said slyly. "But let's not talk about him anymore."

Merlin, that you said that gave him butterflies. It was the last push of courage he needed to lead you, step by step, until your back was against the stone bannister, and there was only the two of you on the precipice of the world. Between the wind sluicing around them, all he could think, feel, taste, touch, was you. Your sweetness was in full bloom, and he stepped as close as he dared, until you were mere inches away, your breath mingling with his.

"You're... beautiful," he whispered.

A croaking huff emerged from your lips. "Flatterer. You don't know what I look like. I could be ugly. As ugly as a troll, for all you know."

"Impossible." He reached up, drew the back of his fingers across your cheek. "Your soul is too beautiful for the outside not to match."

Your breath hitched.

"Ominis..."

"I'm in with love you, Gibby." He said it before he lost his nerve. "I— I've been in love with you for years."

But your hands slipped from his grasp. You ducked beneath him, and you were away, too far for him to sense you.

No, no, no.

"No, it's— it's not you, I promise," you said quickly. "I-I just... I'm really overwhelmed right now. Emotionally."

He bit back the sting. "I-I'm sorry—"

"Please, don't be—"

"I shouldn't have said anything—"

"Would you let me finish?" He chastened. "I— feel strongly about you too, but I just— I can't give you an answer right now. It's complicated. I'm complicated."

"Then take the summer to think about it," he said, trying to salvage the situation. "Think on it. On us."

"I don't expect you to wait for me."

"I think you underestimate how long I would wait for you."

You let out a hysterical laugh. "Stop saying things like that. It just makes you more attractive."

"That is the idea."

You quietened, sweet. "I'll think on it during the summer. Promise."

It fuelled him on the train home.

Your Hufflepuff friends were with you, and so was his heart, linked now to yours no matter whether you rejected his affections or not. He, on the other hand, sat with Missy until York. Naturally he told her of what had happened, and she was perfectly proud of him, confident he would come back in seventh year with you on his arm. He didn't want to hope, of course, but the fantasy of it was too appealing not to.

Then, when she disembarked, he was alone. And it was... okay.

His personal house-elf Pip accompanied him on the carriage ride from King's Cross. Ominis took the time to rebuild the walls around himself, to compartmentalise his emotions for the next six weeks. He was seventeen now, a man. Soon this charade would be over, and he would be free. My family are the disgrace. Not me. Aunt Noctua's inheritance had come through, and now he had some money to his name, he was waiting, biding his time as the interest built up and he graduated Hogwarts, to move out of the Gaunt estate and never look back.

However, when they arrived at the house and he took his first step inside, something about the place smelt different. Wrong. He didn't get the opportunity to pinpoint what exactly it was when his father pulled him roughly into the eastern receiving room.

"Your inheritance," he said, forgoing pleasantries and greetings. "We have need of it. You will depart to Gringotts in the morning and see it transferred."

The insolence. "You have already dipped into my funds, Father," Ominis reminded tersely. "The rest is mine."

"You dare to disobey me again, boy?"

He yanked his grip free. "Noctua named me in the will. I will not insult her memory by giving it all to you."

"That money is crucial," his father hissed, "for our survival."

And Ominis realised then. That smell... it was of nothing. Not dust nor fabric nor polish for silver. It was simply air, and the general damp musk that emanated from the manor walls. He palmed his wand, realising all too late that the room was nearly empty.

"What— where is everything?"

"Sold. We've hit some hard times, financially. The filthy council keep sending Mudbloods to harangue us for taxes."

"What of Marvolo's fortunes?" Ominis said, incredulous. "Or Grimsley's? Raven or Lenore's?"

For the first time ever, he heard real remorse from his father.

"Gone. Squandered."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Yours," he barked with contempt. "If you hadn't condoned the Sallow boy's actions last summer, we might still be respected. We're the laughing stock of high society now. No one will do business with us." It was absurd to even think that was remotely true, but his father didn't give him the opportunity to retort. "If you wish to avoid seeing our family in ruin, you will send the money at once."

Of course, when Ominis went to Gringotts the next day, he made especially sure to withdraw only a few, pitiful Galleons for his father – and transfer the rest to another vault entirely.

Things were different after that. In the haze of summer nights, he overheard his father raging, drunken, about the unfortunate circumstances to his house-elf Ratch – usually with a belt. Their London residence was reclaimed to cover some of the debts. Marvolo ignored all letters from the council, arguing on the front lawns every week with a Muggle councilman named James Riddle. Even Ominis' possessions were later sold, ornaments, trinkets, his entire book collection, braille texts he'd spent years gathering. It was a wonder they didn't move out entirely or sell the abundance of land they possessed, including a spot of forest further back on the grounds, but his parents were stubbornly attached to the premises, having housed generations of Gaunt offspring, and downplayed their troubles when invited to parties.

Ominis hadn't realised how deeply in trouble they were. Selling odds and ends would do nothing; it couldn't go on. When he suggested to Marvolo to palm off Slytherin's locket and the Peverell ring, Marvolo hissed back with a feral sort of possessiveness.

"There are no Galleons worth these. I would never sell them."

So they lived relatively modestly, with only their small army of house-elves any indication of their former wealth. The only thing that kept him from losing his mind altogether was the thought of you, and he was counting the days until school began again, when he could see you once more.

In August, he was invited to his last pure-blood affair before the term began.

He thought it would be the same as the others, this time a private dinner at the austere Ellingboe estate in Cambridgeshire. Ominis had dressed in his formal wear – the only formal garb he possessed now, the rest having been shilled off – and wordlessly followed his parents to the living room. Only he found it immediately unusual, and suspicious, when Marvolo, Grimsley, Raven and Lenore crowded around the fireplace as well, bickering as they Floo travelled to the Ellingboe's fragrant drawing room. The senior Ellingboes greeted them.

"Welcome, welcome! Just in time. The Malfoys are already seated. Come along!"

Marvolo petted Ominis' shoulder, an amusing gesture considering they were the same height now.

"Behave tonight, little brother."

"Don't I always?"

Ominis' suspicions heightened when he shadowed his brother's steps, and found himself in a stifling dining room, the hearth set to blazing, the musk of lacquered wood like an acrid lemon. The chairs scraped back as the three Malfoys rose in greeting – Edwin, his wife and, unfortunately, Peregrine.

"Come, sit!" coaxed Mr Ellingboe, Dorothy's stout father. "And here, we have a place especially for you, Ominis."

Right next to Dorothy. He resisted the urge to gag as she leant over to him.

"You wore that ensemble last party."

"My apologies," he said without sorrow. "I can't see what I choose."

"That will be the first thing to change."

"What? My lack of sight?"

"Your lack of wardrobe."

She didn't elaborate, but worry stirred in his gut. One more week. Then he'd be back at Hogwarts with his friends, with you. He could endure the snide remarks and disdain until then. He'd been doing it all summer, what was seven more days?

After the first two courses were served, and Ominis survived the painfully stilted conversation with Dorothy, Mr Ellingboe rose to his feet at the head of the table and raised his glass.

"Thank you all for coming today. As the new school year is soon to begin, it is with great enthusiasm that we usher in the next generation of pure-bloods, destined to continue our glorious lineages for many years to come."

Ominis withheld a snort.

"Today, my speech comes with a special announcement. My wife and I are pleased to celebrate the momentous joining of two powerful wizarding lines." Mr Ellingboe dinged his glass. "The betrothal of my beloved daughter, Dorothy... to Ominis Gaunt!"

All of Ominis' disgust drained at once.

No. It cannot be.

"The wedding will take place on Dorothy's seventeenth birthday, next August." Mr Ellingboe brimmed with self-satisfaction. "A toast to the Gaunt name! May this esteemed bloodline prevail for generations to come!"

But as glasses clinked aloft, Ominis realised he had not misheard. He had not conjured falsities, nor woken from a cruel nightmare.

And despite it all, despite everything, he laughed. It wasn't a demure one, either – this was a big, belly-deep, uncouth guffaw that would've made you so proud.

"You cannot be serious."

It rendered the table to utter silence.

"You think this is amusing, boy?" muttered Dorothy's mother.

"We're deadly serious," snapped his father, switching to Parseltongue, and it was like the food he'd eaten had rotted in his stomach. "We have arranged an advantageous match to secure the future of the mighty Slytherin bloodline. You ought to be grateful."

Are they pathologically insane? "But Dorothy— she's my cousin!"

"Once-removed! And an exquisite beauty, not that you could appreciate that."

That seemed to appease Mrs Ellingboe, as she huffed in triumph, and the last of Ominis' mirth fell away.

This... this was real. He was betrothed. They wanted to marry him off to his own cousin, because—

"You don't have the ability, do you?" he realised, speaking to Dorothy in clear-cut English, the only language she could understand. "You cannot speak Parseltongue."

"It doesn't matter whether I can speak it or not, because our children will." Her shame was buried by contempt. "I hope your seed is strong, future husband, because I plan on having at least five."

Nausea bowled through his horror. No, no, no. His chair scraped noisily as he stood. "E-Excuse me."

Without waiting for dismissal, he fled the dining room on unsteady feet. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't care. Suddenly the very walls seemed oppressive, burrowing into him, stealing the blood from his veins. His lungs rejected air. His hands quaked. He stumbled into an empty drawing room, narrowly missing a house-elf, slammed the door shut and crumpled onto the nearest chair.

And when he was quietly, mercifully alone... Ominis wept.

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kichiyosh1 · 23 days ago

Text

"Maybe next time… I’ll have something better to say."

scaramouche, wanderer, kabukimono

4.8k words

A run-in with Scaramouche was never going to end quietly. One heated moment leads to you striking him, and immediately regretting it. But instead of the disaster you brace for, things shift. The conversation doesn’t go how it should, and neither of you seem to know what to make of it. It’s awkward, tense, and maybe… something else entirely too.

✧: contains dialogue of bickering, totally not scaramouche just belittling, degrading and dehumanizing you for his own insecurities. enemies to lovers' banter never hurt anyone, no? fluffish at the end

note: ahhh how I've missed writing, to those that know me, I'm back! and for those that don't, I hope I can interest you with this new piece of mine. I'd say it's a big improvement from how I used to write. I am no wordsmith, but I hope my current skills will suffice. enjoy! ( I've been reading way too many HL fanfics my brain's becoming mush agjsahgaghss)

Scaramouche kept a strict standard in all things, from the moment he rises to prepare for the day to how he'd like his missions to be carried out. Accuracy and precision are absolute; even the slightest error would betray a flaw in him. Hinting to a past he’s already left for dead.

He was never one to hesitate to point out the shortcomings of others. In his eyes, flaw was weakness, and weakness had no place in his presence. He scrutinized every action, every word, not out of malice but because he believed he had the right. Perfection was not an ideal to him. It was a requirement. To falter was to be exposed, and vulnerability was something he refused to allow, neither in others nor in himself.

Even now, lost in his usual riigid thought, his mind drifts uninvited, unwanted, to you. He exhales sharply through his nose, a trace of irritation rising in his chest. He shouldn't be thinking about you. The very person where all his ideals go to die. And yet, here you are, lingering in the back of his mind, like an ich he can't locate and be rid off.

A strong General, a candidate for a spot amongst the other harbingers. He's heard stories of you. Agents whisper about how you single handedly wiped out an entire enemy camp. Cicin Mages murmur praise about your quick thinking in battle. And inevitably, the stories always end the same way, with fawning admiration for your strength, your charm, your ability to command a room without even trying. It grates on him more than he cares to admit.

A waterfall of exaggeration he thinks…

You are flawed. In fact, you have many. He’s seen the way your fingers twitch at the hem of your clothes when you're anxious, as if trying to hold yourself together thread by thread. “Quick thinking” they say, perhaps it's because you don't bother to think at all, your body moves on instinct before your mind catches up, reckless and unrefined. A creature led more by impulse than calculation.

The corridor was quiet, the low hum of distant machinery and footsteps echoing faintly through the polished stone walls of the Tsaritsa’s Palace. He walked with practiced precision, posture sharp, each step purposeful. His thoughts were occupied, dissecting faults that weren't his own, when a sudden movement entered his path.

And just his luck, no, more fittingly, his misfortune, he rounded the corner and your worlds collided. Literally.

A sharp step, the brush of fabric, a sudden halt. The impact was small, but the offense felt monumental.

"Watch it."

The words slipped from him, low and cold, not barked but bitten off. His eyes met yours for the briefest moment, narrowed and unreadable, like a blade sheathed just enough not to draw blood. In truth, he had seen you coming a second too late, but pride would sooner shatter than admit fault.

You stood there, surprised, perhaps apologetic. Or worse, unbothered.

And that irritated him even more. But after a moment you open your mouth to speak

“M-my apologies, I was in a hurry and—”

“Was that a stutter I just heard?” You can see the look of disgust on his face, not that he was doing anything to be discreet about it. This causes you to raise a brow.

“So what of it? I was obviously startled.” You're willing to admit you share a fault in the predicament, but engaging in a fair conversation with scaramouche would be akin to walking over a pit of venomous snakes, which is why you try to thread your words as carefully as you can, lest you wish to get bitten.

“Sure. Let's go along with that.” He took a step forward, his kasa tilting just enough to reveal narrowed eyes. It was a mannerism you’d seen before, one he reserved for those he deemed beneath him. With that traveler from another world, his kind act was all a facade. But with you, his intentions were laid bare.

“Though, are you trembling from the cold… or something else entirely?”

This wasn’t the first time you’d encountered the Balladeer, yet every time his gaze settled on you, it burned, sharp, unrelenting, and far too intense. His snide remarks and carefully veiled insults never failed to make their rounds, each one more infuriating than the last. Still, you managed to remain professional to the bitter end.

That didn’t stop the twitch in your eye or the veins now visibly pressing at your temples. You took a slow breath.

“Must you nitpick the smallest of things? Have I done something to upset you, Balladeer?” You've always remained docile between your interactions with others, with the intent to not get on their bad side. But when it came to Scaramouche, that became increasingly difficult. What you didn’t realize, however, was that very calmness you held onto was exactly what stirred the fire in his blood.

“Perhaps. It's not what you've done, but rather what I've heard you did, your so-called achievements. In which case, I was right to believe it was all nothing more than ludicrous exaggeration.” He spoke the words like a fact. He's perceiving you like the dirt beneath his feet. Something meant to be trampled on, not acknowledged.

A part of you knew nothing good would come of this already spiraling conversation. Why bother trying to fill a cup with water when he insisted on poking holes in the bottom just to watch it leak? You had offered clarity, reason, and even restraint. Yet every word out of his mouth chipped away at your patience like a steady, deliberate tap against glass.

Your fingers twitched again at your side, a quiet habit you barely noticed anymore. You shifted your weight, eyes briefly darting to the hallway behind him. Maybe if you turned now, you could salvage what little dignity remained. No victory would come from trading words with someone who only spoke to belittle. You weren’t going to win. Not because you lacked wit, but because he didn’t care for the truth ("only his truth," you internally corrected yourself), but only the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.

You exhaled slowly, preparing to step away.

But before you could turn—

“Now that I've got a good look at you, you share the same traits as a rabbit,” he murmured, tone venom-laced silk. “Yes, pretty to look at, and make wonderful pets as well, but also fall prey to everything around them.”

His hand lifted without warning. Fingers ghosted along the edge of your jaw, a mockery of gentleness in the way he examined you like a specimen. His eyes narrowed, analyzing, degrading.

Your blood ran cold at his words, but then, just as quickly, it boiled.

“You're one to talk.” Your voice didn’t rise, didn’t falter. Calm, steady, and deliberate. You tilted your head slightly, stepping back just enough to break the contact, yet your gaze didn’t leave his. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a flinch.

Inside, your thoughts simmered, not in rage, but with quiet disbelief. If he expected you to shrink away, to play the role he carved out for you in his twisted narrative, he was sorely mistaken.

You were still standing. Still composed.

And he hated that.

“Hmm…” he drawled, taking his time with the sound like he was sizing you up.

He looked you over again, this time with clear intent. There was no admiration in his gaze, only cold scrutiny. He studied you the way one would examine something fragile, waiting for it to crack.

“How far do you think you can go before your body gives out under the pressure of your role?” he said, tilting his head slightly, voice calm but cold. “You walk around acting like you’ve got it all under control. Straight posture, voice level, like you’ve got something to prove.”

In a swift movement, he leans in by your ear, and your breath hitches. “But I see it. The fatigue behind your eyes. The way your hands tense when no one’s looking. The effort it takes for you to stay upright on this sinking boat of yours. You’re holding it together, sure, but barely.”

He paused, his expression sharpening.

“When it finally breaks, I’ll be there. Watching. A sight I’ll be thrilled to see.”

Something in you snaps.

Without thinking, your palm comes in contact with his cheek, the sound sharp and unforgiving. His head jerked to the side, and for a heartbeat, everything was still.

He turned back to you slowly, his hand now cradling his face, fingers pressed lightly against the reddened skin where your slap had landed, though his grip was tight enough to betray the sting. His expression twisted into something between disbelief and murder. Rage simmered just beneath the surface, the corners of his smile not reaching his eyes, twisted and humorless.

“Hah. Have you gone mad?” His voice was quiet, far too quiet. He looked at you like you’d just committed a grave sin, like he was on the brink of just erasing you from existence.

For what it's worth, it was taking everything within you not to drop down on your knees and apologize right there on the spot. Hell, Your heart thudded in your chest, sharp and loud in your ears, like it was punishing you for acting on impulse. You weren’t the type to lash out. Despite your rash decision making, you were never one to exact violence on others unless it was necessary.

And yet here you were, palm still tingling from the impact of striking one of the Harbingers, the Balladeer, like he was just another irritant in your day (which from how things have been unfolding, he's becoming a constant). You could already imagine your ancestors rolling in their graves. No doubt they were gasping, clutching their chests from the spirit realm, watching your reckless decision unfold in slow motion.

Still, you refused to let your face show the panic bubbling under your skin. Your posture remained firm, and your jaw was set, even as your mind screamed that this might have been the biggest mistake of your life.

You met his gaze, forcing the quiver in your voice back down your throat.

“You’re deserving of another,” you said slowly, each word weighed carefully. Your fists were clenched at your sides from irritation and to keep your fingers from trembling. The silence that followed was thick and oppressive. Your heart was still racing, but you held his stare. If you were going to die for this, you weren’t going to do it acting like a bumbling fool, that's for sure.

You drew in a slow, steady breath, trying to keep your voice level even as your pulse hammered in your ears.

“What’s your problem? You're talking to me like I wronged you in another life. Like I'm your sworn enemy. I don't recall doing anything worth picking a fight over.”

You spoke before you could second-guess yourself, a calm mask stretched over the mild panic crackling under your skin. There was an edge of frustration in your tone, but you kept it low, unwilling to give him the pleasure of seeing you rattled. Then your breath hitched again, barely, but enough to notice. You didn’t mean for your voice to waver, but the heat in your chest was rising. The pressure of his stare, the hostility in his words, it was overwhelming in its own way.

Scaramouche’s gaze flickered for a heartbeat, a shadow of something almost melancholic passing through his eyes. It was gone so quickly you wondered if you only imagined it.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if that were true,” he murmured, his voice dipping for just a moment. Something in his expression shifted, it was faint, unreadable. You caught it in the silence that followed, but it passed too quickly to name. He blinked once, slowly, then lifted his chin and resumed that same sharp, composed stare, as if nothing had changed in the moment.

“Meek and foolish… but bold, I'll give you that.” But even as he said it, a thought gnawed at him. He could’ve ended this long ago, struck you down and walked away without consequence, so why hadn’t he?

He’d done worse for less. One move, and this would be over. Easy.

So why was he holding back, letting you speak, letting you look at him like you saw something he himself doesn't wish would come to light? It gnawed at him, this hesitation. He’d never allowed such restraint before, not for anyone. Yet here he stood, teeth clenched around something unnamed, unsure whether it was curiosity, defiance or fear.

For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. The air hung heavy, not with hostility, but something quieter. He didn’t strike back with a fresh insult. He didn’t lash out or silently mock you. That, more than anything, gave you pause.

You really didn’t know how it had gotten to this point. Frustration burned low in your chest. Because every word he said felt like a challenge, like he wanted to get under your skin just to prove he could. He twisted everything, met every response with something sharper. It was exhausting.

Why haven't you just walked away? Shut this all down before it spiraled any further. But then, just for a second, something changed.

For a fleeting moment, he didn’t seem like a Harbinger or a tyrant trying to tear you down. He just looked… tired. Alone, maybe. Worn down by something you weren’t meant to see. And somehow, that made somethinga in you stir.

You weren’t sure why, but your anger eased. Not entirely, but enough to make you hesitate. That momentary crack in him dulled the edge of your frustration.

For someone so quick to point out the flaws of others, he was full of them himself. Whether he acknowledged it or not. And somehow, that realization made your chest ache in a way you didn’t expect.

There was something sad about it. About him.

Perhaps he was like this because he was covering something up. Not power or pride, but insecurity. Fear. A need to stay untouchable so no one could get close enough to see where it hurts.

You took a slow breath, grounding yourself again.

“—Although preferably in this one, I would like it if we weren’t,” you said, voice softer now. “I have no reason to hate you, Balladeer. So please, don’t give me any reason to.”

Your words were measured, a plea wrapped in firm resolve. Inside, you chided yourself for sounding almost diplomatic when your nerves felt like frayed wires. Still, you met his stare without flinching.

He scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive, but it lacked its usual venom. His arms crossed, and for once, he’s the one to break contact away from your gaze.

“That's not something new,” he muttered. “I’ve got enemies too, you know. Some within the Fatui who’d be thrilled to one day witness my downfall. Adding you on to the list, as far as I'm concerned, won't make a difference.”

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t even self-pity. It sounded more like a fact he had long accepted. A sad fact. But even in that resignation, you could hear the weight of it. Like someone who had never expected kindness in the first place.

Perhaps all this time, it was never his intention to harm directly. It’s something else. Subtler. Like he points out others’ flaws just to keep them from seeing his own. Maybe it’s projection. Maybe it’s self-defense. Either way, it's starting to feel less like cruelty, and more like fear, disguised as control.

“I see a tempest in those eyes of yours,” you said quietly. And you meant it. Not just a storm of rage or ego, but grief, bitterness, and something deeper that had never found peace.

Your gaze held his, steady despite the tightness in your chest. You weren’t sure why you said it, or why your voice came out softer than expected, but the words hung there between you. For a moment, you could swear his expression flickered, just slightly. A twitch of the brow. A brief shift in his stance. Something he quickly smothered.

Still, you saw it.

He knew you did.

And he wished you didn't.

Scaramouche never felt cold. He never felt warmth. He never truly understood the concept of any of it. What he was, was an enigma, even to himself.

When others breathed, he mimicked it, despite having no need to. When others slept, he shut his eyes, though weariness never touched him. When others cried, he could force tears from his eyes, though not once had he truly felt the weight behind them.

At Least not anymore.

And yet, when he looks at you, something twitched. Something restless stirred beneath the calm he'd carved into himself. He didn't like it. Didn't understand it.

You were flawed. Irritating. Far too human.

But the way your eyes looked at him, like you saw more than you should. It made something inside him ache. And he hated that more than anything.

You seemed to pick up on his distress, no matter how carefully veiled he tried to hide it. He always ended up off-set around you. Unsteady. A feeling he despised, almost as much as he feared it.

You’d give yourself a pat on the back for this skill if the whole thing didn’t feel so… wrong.

It was uncomfortable on your part seeing the Balladeer not… acting like the Balladeer. Scaramouche.

Whatever that entails in your mind, you're not quite sure. You just knew something was off, and you wanted no part in it longer than necessary.

Still, you stood there, mentally hyping yourself up, for what, to be the bigger person? For the Balladeer, no less? Now there's a dreadful thought. But truthfully, you didn’t know how else to move this conversation along. If you could even call it that.

“Fortunately for you, I’ll have to cut this short,” you finally said, voice cool but controlled. “We all have places to be, I’m sure.” You meant to walk away this time, you really did. You've already shifted your weight forward, already placing one foot in front of the other.

“Once again, I apologize for bumping into you. If I could, I would’ve taken a different route, anything to avoid ending up like this. Truly.” You couldn’t believe you were apologizing a second time, but it was either that or keep playing this endless game back and forth. And you already knew it would lead nowhere.

You expected a scoff. A sarcastic quip. Maybe even a snide remark to send you off. Instead, what you got was silence. Then, when you glanced back, something different. Scaramouche wasn’t sneering. He wasn’t grinning. He almost looked… pained. Just for a second. His eyes didn’t meet yours the way they usually did, with challenge or contempt. He was avoiding it. Hiding something behind a too-still face.

Why?

“What makes you say that?” he asked at last, his voice low, too even.

You blinked. “Say what?”

“You know what I mean. Surely you aren’t that brain dead.” He looked at you, waiting, expecting some flicker of realization to appear in your eyes.

But it never came.

And for a moment, he started to wonder if he was the fool here.

“My, what a tragedy it must be huh.” There was a weight in his words that hadn’t been there before. Like he wasn’t talking about what happened, or the apology, or even the conversation anymore.

You don’t know what he’s trying to say, and maybe he doesn’t either. First, he lashes out. Then when you finally respond in kind, he doesn’t stop, he keeps pushing. But the moment you start to really see past his facade, which you know it is, he hesitates. And now he’s looking at you with this strange, unreadable expression, like he’s waiting for something. He gives you that look, like he’s silently asking, 'Is that it?' Like some part of him hoped you wouldn’t just walk away.

You catch it, that flicker of something raw, almost vulnerable, barely held back behind his carefully built walls. It's there for a breath, maybe less, before he shuts it down completely. The weight in his eyes vanishes, replaced by the cold, familiar mask he wears so well. Once again.

He straightens, scoffs softly like he’s mocking himself more than you, then speaks.

“Do you think I’m gonna let you walk away from striking me, a Harbinger? Only a fool would do such a thing, and a fool you are.”

The venom returns to his tone, but it doesn’t land the same. It feels like a defense, like he’s scrambling to put distance back where it briefly slipped away. And for all the fury in his words, there’s something else laced beneath them. A tension that doesn’t match the bite he’s trying to deliver. Something unspoken, but not unnoticed.

You’re not sure why, but you find yourself scrambling for a distraction, anything to pull the moment back from wherever it’s threatening to go. Your eyes drift to his face, searching for something to latch onto. And you go for it.

“U-uhm… your face is red."

His brow lifts slowly. In a way that you didn't think he was capable of pulling off on that face of his.

"Well, that came out wrong."

Did you really just say that? Were you implying he was blushing? That he, Scaramouche, The Balladeer, a Harbinger feared across nations, was somehow flustered? Have you completely lost your mind?

For a split second, the air between you tenses. His stare narrows, and you're pretty sure you just issued yourself a death sentence. Your breath catches. Backpedal. Now.

You quickly raise a hand, pointing to the side of his face, the one you’d struck earlier. “I-I meant… from earlier. The slap.”

Something shifts. The tension sizzles out, and realization flickers in his eyes.

“Ah. That. Right ” he murmurs. He repeats the words more to himself than to you, almost as if reminding himself of where this all began.

His slender fingers rise to his cheek, brushing over the warm skin there with a touch that’s strangely absent of anger. He lingers there a moment too long. He could still feel the sting, not from the strike itself, but from the fact that it happened. That he had let you get close enough to land the hit in the first place. That someone like you had dared, and worse, that he had let it slide. No lightning, no retaliation, no immediate retribution.

That should’ve been the end of you.

“I ought to throw you underground and let Dottore and his clones pick you apart like one of his specimens as punishment,” he says finally, tone flat as glass. “Or I can just end you here myself.”

The words should have been terrifying. But they weren't. Not what’d you think he's trying to make them out to be. They fell flat, worn smooth from overuse. Threats had become his reflex, delivered as automatically as breath. He’s not trying to scare you anymore. He’s trying to reset. Push you away before you get any closer. Before you start peeling away at something he doesn't want uncovered.

“Before any of… uhm, that,” you murmur, letting your hand hover awkwardly between you, unsure whether to point at his cheek or simply drop the subject. “At least let me tend to your face. It’s the least I can do.”

''Before I die?" you think, though you wisely choose not to say it out loud.

Scaramouche’s eyes flick down to your hovering hand, then back to your face. The faintest crease marks his brow, as if he cannot decide whether your offer is foolish or curious.

“What makes you think I’m not perfectly capable of handling it myself?” He speaks evenly, but there’s something off, something that hums like a frayed wire behind the smooth delivery. Not exhaustion in the way humans feel it, but a kind of dull wear that comes from holding himself too tightly for too long.

You manage a small, steady breath. “Take it as my apology for hitting you.” A heartbeat’s pause, then honesty slips out. “I don’t regret it, though. You crossed a line.” jerk. You bite your tongue.

There’s the faintest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth, too brief to be certain. “Likewise.”

For a fleeting instant, you think he might leave it at that, some silent truce, an unspoken agreement that you’d both landed your share of blows. You actually think he’s dropped his ego long enough to admit something vaguely human. But then his gaze sharpens just a little, pride flickering back into place like a reflex.

“Regarding your latter statement,” he adds, tone colder but lacking real bite. It’s petty, precise, and undeniably him, a last-second jab to reestablish the upper hand. Just the Balladeer being the Balladeer. A little bruised, a lot stubborn.

You huff, tension easing just enough to tease him. “You’re impossible.”

He tilts his head, almost thoughtful. “And you're infuriating.”

Despite the words, the moment softens. You notice the stiffness in his shoulders ebb, only a fraction, but enough to prove he is not made entirely of steel. He studies you as if weighing risk against relief, deciding which feels heavier on his tongue.

The corridor seems quieter now, as though even the distant machinery has dimmed to grant you both this fragile truce. The sting on his cheek still blooms red, a stark reminder that you can break through the surface. He can feel it too, pulse thrumming beneath his fingers. Something vulnerable lives there, beneath habit and threat.

Slowly, deliberately, you reach for the cloth tucked into your belt pouch, a simple scrap, dampened earlier from your canteen, something meant for scrapes or dust, not this. Your fingers tighten slightly as you draw it out, trying to ignore the part of your brain screaming at you that this could still go very wrong.

You step closer. Your hand is steady, but every nerve underneath is braced like you’re standing in a thunderstorm, waiting for lightning to strike. You extend the cloth between you, not forcefully, not timidly either.

“May I?” It’s a small question. One that carries no challenge, no sarcasm, no agenda. Just quiet sincerity. Just patience.

He does not move, but he does not flinch either. A subtle concession. His lashes lower, the faintest sigh escaping him as if surrendering costs less energy than more bravado.

“Just this once,” he mutters, voice quiet, but no less sharp. “And if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone… I'll see to it that even Celestia doesn't have a place for you.” he doesn't elaborate, he has no need to.

You dab the cloth gently across the reddened skin. He keeps perfectly still. For once, he is silent without being threatening, and you realize how rare that is. The silence between you lingers, strange, but not unwelcome. He doesn’t stop you. Maybe he should. Maybe he wants to. But he doesn’t. And for some reason, that feels like enough.

When you draw back, he watches you tuck the cloth away. His cheek is still flushed, but the worst of the heat has faded. Your pulse steadies in your ears, the moment hanging quiet and unsure between you.

“That... will suffice,” he mutters, barely audible, as if the words taste unfamiliar. Not quite gratitude, but close enough to pass.

You nod, a touch of dry humor softening your voice. “Any time you decide not to kill me on sight, feel free to ask.”

There it is again, that small twitch at the corner of his mouth, the ghost of something softer. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he replies, tone low, almost casual. and for once, it doesn’t sound like a threat.

Neither of you moves right away. The silence between you has changed, no longer tense, no longer sharp. It hums with something unspoken, something neither of you would dare name. Not yet.

You step back first. Then him. The space returns, safe and familiar, but it feels different now. A little warmer than before. The corridor hums again, a reminder of where you are, of who you’re supposed to be to each other. Still, something lingers.

You turn, ready to walk away. But as you do, you can’t help but think, maybe next time. Maybe you’ll bump into each other again, on a different day, under better circumstances.

And in the stillness that follows, he’s thinking the same. Not that he’d admit it. Not even to himself.

Just a quiet, reluctant thought:

Maybe next time… I’ll have something better to say.

#genshin impact x reader #scaramouche x you #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche

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